


good company

by fiveandnocents



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Oliver & Company (1988)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Class Differences, M/M, Pining, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 07:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17894528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveandnocents/pseuds/fiveandnocents
Summary: She sighs, this full body thing that Dodger can feel, and says, “It’s not so bad, Dodge. We all thought it would happen eventually.”“Yeah? So I’m just the idiot then—not realizing the kid would end up in love with me?”





	good company

**Author's Note:**

> This stemmed from a kink meme prompt about Oliver having a crush and being too scared to tell Dodger. Clearly this whole thing went awry immediately.

The kid has a crush on him. 

Dodger can see it coming from a mile away— from thirty miles away really—with how Oliver bites his bottom lip whenever Dodger pulls him in with an arm around his shoulders, how Oliver curls up against him whenever Maurice wears the gang down enough to watch one of his performances, or in the way that Oliver gets fussy and pouty whenever Dodger lays the charm on a wide-eyed stranger. 

Hell, even _Tito_ , unobservant, scatterbrained Tito, remarks on it once; yipping out some sly comment about how the kid is rich enough now that he doesn’t need to be slumming after Dodger that makes Oliver’s cheeks flare bright red. 

And that was fine, because crushes are simple and fleeting at fourteen, and the kid will get over it in a week, and Dodger doesn’t have to think about all the reasons why it would be wrong. 

“I like you.”

Dodger blinks.

Oliver is blushing up to his roots, but he’s maintaining some pretty significant eye contact, something he wouldn’t have been able to do back when he’d first joined the gang six years ago. 

He’s not sure what exactly about this moment triggered this confession. They’re in Central Park, sharing a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s because the kid has money to drop on shit like that now, and Dodger can’t stomach eating a twenty dollar sandwich on his own. Dodger feels like a phony, sitting here while fit people jog by and tourists take pictures, and all he can think about is how he’s lived here his whole life and never had pastrami before. As a self-proclaimed ladies man, he’s never felt less romantic in his life. 

There’s also the fact that Oliver is _fourteen_. 

“You too, kid,” he says, timing the words with a lingering gaze at the perky brunette that jogs by. It’s cowardly, but playing dumb never killed anybody.

Dodger lets out a huff of air as Oliver gives him a little kitten tap in the side, and when Dodger turns to look at him again, the sweet flush is gone and Oliver’s eyes are sharp. 

“Don’t _do_ that. You know what I mean.”

Dodger sighs. He should’ve known the kid was too feisty to let it go. 

“Look, it’s cute,” he says, pointedly ignoring how Oliver blushes all over again at that, “but you’re just mixing up those hero worship feelings you had into something a little different. It’ll stop once you’re old enough.” He shoves a last bit of pastrami in his mouth and stands up, brushing the crumbs off his jeans. He jumps when Oliver pushes into his space, nose scrunched in the way it does when he’s riled up.

“I’m not just some kid anymore,” Oliver huffs, but his voice cracks halfway through in a poorly timed reminder of puberty, and Dodger can’t help but grin at how Oliver’s ears go pink in embarrassment. 

“Sure, kid.” Dodger flicks at the ever present cowlick in Oliver’s hair before bopping the same finger on his nose, and Oliver can’t really pull off intimidating, but the glare he gives Dodger is an admirable try. 

“I’m the same age you were when we first met,” Oliver says, shoving gently at Dodger’s chest and then lingering in a way that makes Dodger have to take a step back. 

If anything, that’s all the more reason for Dodger to keep his hands to himself. He was an unrivaled dumbass as a teenager, too cocky for his own good and certain of his own immortality. 

“Not everyone can be as cool as me,” Dodger says instead of the truth, and then purposely avoids Oliver’s eyes. “Come on, kid.” 

He wraps an arm around Oliver’s shoulders, acutely aware of how Oliver barely comes up to his shoulder at this point, and thankfully Oliver drops it and lets Dodger lead them away from the park and this entire conversation. 

—

Dodger thinks that’ll be the end of it. He meant it when he said that Oliver’s feelings will pass once he gets older and realizes that Dodger isn’t all he’s cracked up to be, but—

Oliver just keeps looking at him with those _eyes_. 

Like when Oliver starts his second year of high school, giving Dodger this yearning, appreciative look as he meets Oliver at the gates of his fancy private school to wish him a good first day, or a year later when Dodger gets his first real job changing oil at a garage and Oliver bites his lip and his eyes simmer the first time he sees Dodger sweaty and greasy after a shift.

It’s unavoidable now, different to how it had been before when Dodger could feign ignorance. 

It doesn’t help that the kid is finally growing up, less lanky awkward teen and more adult drenched in this kind of inexorable feline grace. 

The first time he picks Oliver up after school and realizes that the kid has lost all of the baby fat in his cheeks, he does an actual double take, lingering at the sudden emergence of a sharp jawline and high cheekbones. With the intent way Oliver has been watching him lately, of course he notices, and then Dodger’s left with a blushing, pleased teenager for the next few weeks. 

By the time Oliver is going into his last year of high school, Dodger can tell that he’s fucked it all up, because if anything, the kid just looks at him with more heat in his gaze and this clear confidence that means he knows what he wants to _do_ with all of his simmering attraction. 

Dodger buys a used motorcycle with the cash he’s saved up from working at the garage once Fagin’s shitty moped finally bites it, and the way Oliver practically purrs the first time Dodger picks him up with it is damn near unacceptable for public display. It’s not like Dodger intends to be a teenager’s bad boy fantasy, and it’s not like he’s _encouraging_ anything, but he also doesn’t stop Oliver from holding him as tight as he does when Dodger takes him for a ride. 

And Oliver. Oliver preens under the attention his classmates give him whenever Dodger shows up at his school (and it’s not _often_ , it’s just that sometimes Oliver’s fancy butler rings him at the garage and asks him to help out whenever Oliver and Jenny have to be in different places at the same time and—) because his classmates always whisper and blush when they see him and Oliver always says, _That’s Dodger_ , like he’s something coveted before basking under the jealousy of their stares. 

Dodger could call that off too. Could maybe send a few harmless winks here or there to a few of the other students to show that Oliver doesn’t have full dibs on him, but he doesn’t do that either.

And then Oliver calls him up at three in the morning, drunk as all hell and slurring, “I can’t go back to Jenny’s. I’ll get in so much trouble,” before breaking down in drunken tears. 

Dodger’s still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he picks Oliver up all the way in goddamn Brooklyn and Oliver is still teary-eyed in the way only the truly wasted can be. Dodger shuffles Oliver in front of him on the bike, not trusting Oliver’s ability to maintain any type of grip on Dodger’s waist, and Oliver’s snuffling dies down by the time he pulls back up to the shack. 

Oliver curls himself up against Dodger’s body once Dodger gets them settled onto the pile of threadbare cushions, seemingly uncaring that it’s not even close to his thousand dollar mattress waiting for him at home. “I can always count on you,” he whispers, tucking his face into Dodger’s neck before falling asleep. 

It figures, really, that Oliver ends up falling in love with him.

—

It all comes to a head on Oliver’s eighteenth birthday.

Dodger would rather spend most of the party in the kitchen with Winston and Fagin watching another boxing match (and that thought makes him feel old as all hell), and if he overhears another one of Oliver’s rich friends talk about their summer trip to Bermuda or Jamaica or wherever the fuck else, he’s going to lose it. 

He compromises and heads outside to smoke.

“That habit is going to kill you, you know.”

Dodger sighs and lifts his head back from where he’d rested it against the wall. He likes Jenny, she’s a sweet girl, practically like a little sister to him, and that’s the only reason he doesn’t blow the smoke right in her face. 

“I’ve only had one,” he lies. She raises an eyebrow at him and he can’t help but laugh. These kids are gonna kill him before any cigarette does. “Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t my scene and you know it. I gotta take the edge off somehow.”

Jenny rolls her eyes before she sits down on the step next to him, tucking her skirt up behind her knees gracefully. She looks up at the sky. “Oliver and I used to try to find the stars when we were little. Kind of silly, huh? Not even close to possible here with all of the lights. We were obsessed with it though. Had books with all the stories and astrology too.” She’s talking just to fill the space, no pressure on him to respond, and it’s soothing in the way his cigarettes haven’t been.

“ _When_ you were little?” he teases, but it’s all a front. It’s more pronounced in Jenny, how many years have actually gone by. She’s a young woman now. There’s a layer of sophistication that she holds herself with and it’s only a matter of time before she takes over her parents’ law firm and takes New York by storm. 

“Oh, stop,” she laughs, bumping her shoulder against his knee. “You know we’re not eight years old anymore.”

“Thank god, I thought I got the wrong candles for the cake.”

“You didn’t even get the candles,” she points out, grinning. 

“Didn’t get a gift either.” 

Not for lack of trying, but he can’t help when Fagin makes another shitty deal that Dodger has to pay for. He’s not even sure why he said it, except for how sometimes his self-hatred gets a little too strong to handle sometimes. He plasters on a fake smile to distract her; it’s not like he needs another rich person’s pity tonight.

The look Jenny gives him is all too knowing. “You know that doesn’t matter to him. He’s just happy that you’re here.”

Dodger shrugs and takes another drag of his cigarette. 

Jenny stands up and pulls at his arm, making his cigarette fall from between his fingers. She stomps it out over the sound of his outraged cry. “Come on. Oliver wants you in there the most.”

Before he knows it, he’s holding court in front of a bunch of teenagers, lying through his teeth about a time he ran from five different cops at once. Rita gives him a smirk that lets him know she’s well aware of the bullshit he’s spewing, and he’s lucky Tito couldn’t make it tonight, because if he had then Dodger wouldn’t be getting away with any of this. As it is, no one is calling him out and there are no less than fifteen different teenagers staring at him with stars in their eyes and he…

His voice trails off and Oliver looks at him strangely until Dodger grins and says, “Actually, I’m gonna pass this off to my good friend Maurice here. He tells it better than I do.” 

He slips back out after his cohort diverts their attention onto Maurice instead, who takes over the story with more aplomb and flair than Dodger could ever hope to achieve.

He’s back in less than fifteen minutes and it barely takes any convincing to recruit Einstein and his freakishly long limbs to help him with the rest. It’s luck that they finish right before the party dies down, slipping back into the living room like they’d never left. 

The gang is last to leave, giving Oliver affectionate head rubs as they trickle out, and no one gives Dodger a second look as he stays behind. 

“I’m so glad you guys could come,” Oliver gushes as they walk up the marble staircase to his room. He’s flagging a little, the edges of tiredness seeping in, but he’s radiant in his joy and Dodger can’t tease him for that. 

“Course, kid. You’re one of us still, aren’t ya?” 

Oliver beams. “Yeah, for sure. Always.”

Dodger has to look away from that smile before he does something crazy. “Close your eyes,” he says, stopping Oliver before he opens the door to his room.

Oliver giggles, eyes sparkling. “Why? Is it a surprise?”

His enthusiasm is contagious and Dodger has to try hard to play it cool and not grin back. “Can’t tell you, can I?”

Oliver closes his eyes at that, biting his lip to keep his smile in check. Dodger opens Oliver’s door and pulls Oliver in, steadying him with a hand on his waist. He moves behind him, pushing the door shut and bathing them in darkness.

It’s almost shockingly intimate, how suddenly Dodger can feel Oliver breathing from where he’s pressed against Dodger’s chest, how soft the fabric of Oliver’s t-shirt is under Dodger’s hand. His own breath comes a little slower and his voice is weak when he finally speaks. 

“Happy Birthday,” Dodger whispers, and Oliver opens his eyes.

Oliver’s jaw drops as he steps farther into the room, slipping out from Dodger’s grasp. He gapes at Orion and Aries and all the other constellations that Dodger can’t be assed to remember spread out across the length of his ceiling. 

Einstein is useless half of the time and a verified genius for the other half, and he had assured Dodger that the night sky they made was as accurate as a person could get with a hundred glow-in-the-dark plastic stars, and the way Oliver is looking at them seems to prove him right.

“How did you…” Oliver trails off, eyes still tracing the constellations.

Dodger rests his back against the closed door and watches stars’ pale glow shine across Oliver’s cheekbones. “Thank Einstein. He’s the brains and the brawns for this one. I’m just the schmuck who got the idea.”

Oliver finally looks at him and says, “You don’t know the constellations?”

“Not a chance, kid. Where would I have learned them? Not everyone can get a fancy education like you.”

Oliver doesn’t take the bait, too used to Dodger’s self-deprecating bullshit. “Come look at them with me,” he says, and pulls Dodger onto his bed before he can say no.

Oliver doesn’t start talking his ear off about which one is which, even though it’s clear that he knows almost as much as Einstein about them. Dodger stays tense at first, something in him rejecting the plushness of the mattress and softness of the sheets, but the dull glow and tempo of their matching breaths lull him into complacency sooner than he expects.

“Canus Major is my favorite one,” Oliver whispers into the silence between them, like it’s a secret. 

“Which one is that?” Dodger mumbles.

Oliver leans in closer, grabs Dodger’s arm and lifts it up. Their fingers link as Oliver uses them to point at a cluster near the center. “You see the line of three dots? That’s Orion’s belt. If you follow that over there, you’ll end up hitting that bigger one there. That’s Sirius. People call that the nose of the dog, but I always thought it was more like the neck. And the rest is down there.”

He guides Dodger’s hand as he explains, right hand over right hand, and it’s like Oliver is painting the stars there with the smooth, relaxed way he moves their palms. Oliver drops Dodger’s arm when he’s done, but stays pressed close enough that Dodger can feel the heat from Oliver’s side.

It doesn’t look much like a dog to Dodger, but what does he know. 

“Why’s that one your favorite?” 

Oliver’s head tilts just the slightest bit, resting on Dodger’s shoulder, and Dodger can barely hear past the rushing in his ears. “Sirius is the brightest star in the sky,” Oliver says, and then, _insanely_ , his hand comes out to rest against Dodger’s chest. “It reminds me a lot of you.”

Dodger chokes out a quiet laugh and tries not to think about the heat of Oliver’s palm. “No wonder you haven’t kicked us all to the curb yet. You’re a pretty bad judge of character.”

Oliver sighs against Dodger’s neck. “Actually, I think that’s you.”

Dodger doesn’t have anything to say to that—nothing new at least—so he stays quiet. He thinks they’ll fall asleep like that, when suddenly Oliver pushes up, torso twisting over Dodger’s so that they’re face-to-face. 

The glow from the stars surround Oliver like he’s something ethereal and Dodger can’t look away. Eighteen years old, four years of dancing around each other, and Dodger is blown away by how Oliver can still take his breath away.

“I love you,” Oliver whispers, eyes half-lidded and lips parted from an emotion that Dodger doesn’t want to think about. 

Dodger’s shock lasts just long enough for Oliver to crawl into his lap with all of the feline grace he’s always possessed, and the action renders Dodger speechless. 

He’s waiting for it, ready for something to top this balancing act between them. 

Oliver balances his weight on his knees, arching just enough that he seems to loom over Dodger. His arms are light where they rest on Dodger’s shoulders, but Dodger thinks they’re much more effective at keeping him pinned when matched with Oliver’s hazy blue eyes. 

And then Oliver stops, stuck like he never expected to get this far and he has no idea what to do. It hits Dodger then—the self-consciousness in Oliver’s gaze, the smallness of his hands—that the kid may be considered an adult now, but he’s still not ready for this and all of the baggage that comes with a guy like Dodger. 

He puts his hands over Oliver’s elbows and pulls his arms away. His grip is firm and his voice is firmer when he says, “No, Oliver.”

The kid visibly flinches, like his name is some kind of slur coming from Dodger’s mouth, and he flings himself off Dodger’s lap, burying his face in a pillow. His shoulders don’t shake, but he lets out this pained whine before he can cut it off, and Dodger feels worthless.

“Kid—”

“Don’t.”

“Look, it’s not—”

“Just go away,” Oliver whimpers, rolling his shoulder away when Dodger tries to put a comforting hand on him. Dodger sits there, torn, until Oliver rasps out, “Please.”

Dodger leaves.

—

“Hey, Dodge,” Rita says, her tall, lithe shadow falling over him. 

Dodger keeps his eyes on the tv, and he only gets away with it because the bright static reflects off of his sunglasses just enough that she can’t tell. It’s a trick he’s used before though, so she sees right through his avoidance tactics.

She lays down, fitting herself against the empty space between himself and the couch. Her head rests against his chest, hand on his stomach, and he thinks about how this almost feels right; but she doesn’t nuzzle against his shoulder until she’s comfortable, and her legs are long, graceful things that hang off of the other arm rest. 

“You haven’t done this in a while,” she comments in that purposely casual voice of hers. 

If it were anyone else, he’d say something like, _You kidding? This is my favorite show_ , but it’s Rita, and she can smell bullshit from a mile away, so he stays quiet. 

She sighs, this full body thing that Dodger can feel, and says, “It’s not so bad, Dodge. We all thought it would happen eventually.”

“Yeah? So I’m just the idiot then—not realizing the kid would end up in love with me?” His voice is bitter, but he can’t exactly pinpoint why. He hates not knowing how people are going to act, because who is he if he’s not able to read people? But it’s more than that. More to do with how he sleeps better with orange hair tickling his neck and how he hasn’t so much as looked at a short skirted brunette on the street since Oliver turned sixteen. More to do with what he almost let happen. 

“Hey, you know that’s not it,” Rita admonishes, leaning up on an arm to take off his sunglasses and force him to meet her eyes. “He’s just a kid, Dodger. He’ll get over it.”

 _He won’t_ , Dodger wants to say, because that's what he'd thought when Oliver was fourteen and since then he’s seen every emotion scratched across Oliver’s face only get stronger and stronger. Still, though, his gut clenches at Rita’s words, and what does it say about him? That the thought of Oliver moving on—maybe finding someone more his own age—makes him have to force down a rush of green-tinged anger?

“Course he will.”

—

Dodger doesn’t see the kid for a week after that, which is the longest time he’s stayed away from the shack since Oliver was eight years old and met Jenny for the first time.

It’s what Dodger should want, but instead he’s chain smoking like a bandit, mind running wild imagining all of the scenarios that Oliver could be getting into. He’s fine, Dodger tells himself. Oliver’s probably safe and sound in his cozy 5th Avenue mansion. Nothing to worry about. Oliver is safer farther from Dodger’s side of town anyway, less likely to attract trouble, or at least that’s what Dodger tells himself until Oliver shows up on his doorstep with a split lip and rapidly swelling cheek. 

“Wha...” Dodger can’t manage to finish the question; his mouth stuck in a gape along with the vowel.

Oliver nudges him back to slide through the doorway and mumble, “Let me in, Dodger. I can’t go home like this.”

Something in Dodger bristles at the word _home_ and how it apparently doesn’t apply to him anymore, and that’s really the only way Oliver’s able to sneak by him. 

Oliver makes a beeline for the cooler and his nose wrinkles up once he sees the half melted ice cubes and single can of cola nestled beneath the slush. 

“Take it,” Dodger says. “The gang’s out getting more.”

Oliver presses the can to his red cheek and slumps down on the cushions that make up Dodger’s makeshift bed. The way he sinks into the cushions makes Dodger mildly nostalgic of the days when Oliver used to curl up against his side, small and sweet, and let out a little kitten sigh before sleep. Looking at him now, finally grown into his gangly limbs, Dodger wonders what happened. If someone had told him that he’d be getting caught up in the way Oliver’s hair brushes the back of his neck or how his eyes get stuck on the shadows of light brushing across Oliver’s cheekbones, he would have clocked them. But here he is, a few minutes off of a week-long smoking binge stemmed from what turned out to be completely rational concern. Maybe it’s that release of adrenaline, but that’s what Dodger’s going to stick with if he ever has to explain to anyone why he sits down next to Oliver’s sprawled form and pulls him in to lean against his side. 

“You can’t do this you know,” Oliver says grumpily, but he leans into Dodger’s side nonetheless. 

“And you can’t show up looking like you got jumped and think I’m not gonna baby you,” Dodger replies, trying not to wince at the word choice. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Just a fight. You know how it is.”

“Yeah? Since when have you been in the habit of getting into fights, kid?”

Oliver shrugs, mouth firmly shut.

“Look, I know we’re not seeing eye to eye right now,” Dodger says, “but you can’t shut us all out like that again. Picking fights ain’t gonna fly either.”

Oliver pouts, bitter and teenaged. “I just don’t want things to change because of what I said.”

Dodger gulps, thinking of the way Oliver had looked at him with wet lips and blue eyes and practically offered himself up on a platter. He shakes Oliver’s shoulder solely for the fact that it helps him clear his head too. “Who’s the one acting different here?”

Oliver shrugs again, and when Dodger looks down at him, his bottom lip is trembling just the slightest bit.

“Oh, kid,” Dodger sighs, pulling Oliver in so that he can rest his face in Dodger’s shoulder. The coke falls to the floor in a clatter, but Dodger doesn’t care and Oliver doesn’t move as he cries. 

—

That night sticks with Dodger for more reasons than he cares to admit, but it isn’t until he’s reminded of how laughable the idea of Oliver getting into a fight is that he realizes that he was missing the full picture. 

It doesn’t help that Roscoe is the one to clear things up for him. 

“How’s the kitten?” Roscoe drawls the next time they’re all put outside while their dads _negotiate_. DeSoto is, as always, snarling in the corner. 

“None of your business, Roscoe,” Dodger says, and immediately knows he’s shown his hand. 

Roscoe grins, all teeth and smarm. “Oh, I think it is.” 

The thing is, Roscoe’s voice makes Dodger cringe on good days, and right now, on edge and sniffing out the first tendrils of a fight, it makes him grit his teeth against the full body shiver of disgust. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

If possible, Roscoe’s smile curls even wider. “You don’t know?” 

Dodger bristles. “You know I don’t. Quit playing around and tell me or shut the hell up.”

Roscoe has always looked a little bit like the devil to Dodger, with charm for days that does nothing to hide the yellow gleam in his eyes. It’s why he’s alarmed to feel surprised at the look of sheer _euphoria_ on Roscoe’s face when he says, “Little kitten had been coming around for a few days looking for some fun. Just was wondering when he was coming back.”

Dodger has never liked Roscoe’s way of making something sound like a flower when it was a weed, but he supposes it’s helped, because Dodger doesn’t need to think twice about what Roscoe’s really saying to him.

“You’re lying,” Dodger says, even though he knows Roscoe’s not. “He’s not coming back,” he adds on reflex, because the way Roscoe had said _when_ instead of _if_ is rattling around in Dodger’s brain and this makes him feel a little less insane.

Roscoe just smirks and lights up a cigarette.

Dodger thinks it’s done, the conversation is over, when he hears DeSoto snort and growl out, “Yeah? You think you can stop us?” and Dodger’s clearly not thinking when he lunges.

Dodger gets the shit kicked out of him, but even as he’s wrapping his wounds in newspaper under the supervision of Rita as the rest of the gang handle a frazzled Fagin back at the shack, he can’t help but think he’d make the same choice again.

—

“ _Roscoe_?” Dodger accuses the next time Oliver comes around, and there’s got to be too much anger leftover in his voice because Oliver looks like he’s been slapped. 

“I—” Oliver actually turns around to see if Roscoe’s behind him before he turns back to Dodger. “I don’t…” God, the kid is just looking at him with those damn _eyes_ like Dodger is the sun and all Dodger can do is wonder if Oliver looked at Roscoe or DeSoto like that while they fucked him. 

“Dodger?” Tito’s voice calls from behind him, which means the rest of them are listening in too, and Dodger can’t have this conversation with everyone right now. 

He grabs his leather jacket off the floor and blocks everyone’s view of the doorway as he puts it on. “I’m heading out.” If he sounds gruffer than usual, no one comments on it. 

With the door shut behind him, Oliver’s face is cast into shadow and he can’t have that either. He leads Oliver across the docks, eyes adjusting to the harsher, bluer light, until he can’t keep walking anymore. 

“What the _hell_ were you _thinking_?” Dodger hisses, pushing into Oliver’s space. 

He can see the way Oliver instinctively curls his shoulders forward, ingrained habit from when he was shyer and younger, but his eyes are defiant as he backs up against one of the docked boats. “Maybe if you _told_ me, I’d tell you.”

Dodger’s leather jacket feels too tight across his shoulders as he paces. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t have the tact to say it any way other than the coarse, raw way it makes him feel. “You’ve been fucking the Sykes’ boys?”

The words sit heavy, blanketing the chasm between them. Oliver pulls his shoulders in closer, wraps his elbows in his hands, and pointedly says nothing. 

“And then you show up looking like you got your ass handed to you and don’t _tell me_ what happened? Did you think they were gonna treat you right, kid? Did you think they were gonna give a shit about how you felt? Of all the stupid—”

“Shut up!” Oliver yells, ferocious and spitting with it. Dodger’s eyes widen and he takes a step back in the face of all that livewire rage. “I’m not a kid anymore! I wanted someone to treat me like an adult and that’s what I got! So, _shut up_.”

Oliver’s never yelled at him before, not even when he was eight years old, moving out, and facing down a shitty insecure Dodger. 

His shoulders tense up before he realizes it, and even before the words leave his mouth, he wishes his fight response would sit the fuck down every once in a while and let the flight side save his dumb ass instead. 

“Like an adult? You’re a fucking _pet_ to them, _kitten_.”

A hard shove to his chest knocks him back and the shock makes him blessedly shut the fuck up. Oliver’s fists are clenched at his sides and Dodger knows that if he was anyone else, he would’ve gotten a fist to the face for his troubles. 

“I hate you!” Oliver screams, thick tears pushing themselves out of the corners of his eyes. “I never want to see you again!” 

He runs off before Dodger can respond, which is probably for the best, because Dodger is a bastard at the best of times, and this isn’t one of those times. 

—

A day and a half later, Oliver shoves his way into the shack, brushing past Rita’s soft concern and Tito’s aggressive questions and throws himself into Dodger’s arms. 

Dodger clings back just as tight, burying his nose in soft orange hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, throat tight, because he can’t believe the kid came back. It shouldn’t be this easy to be forgiven; Dodger should have to work harder for it. Dodger has been a wreck around the shack, snapping and growling at anyone and anything in misplaced rage. Dodger hasn’t wanted to be around himself the last few days, so the fact that the kid still does breaks something in him. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Oliver grumbles, but his grip doesn’t loosen up the slightest bit.

Dodger can see Tito practically vibrating in place over Oliver’s shoulder, and it shows how much they’ve all grown that he doesn’t ask anything.

Privacy is a nonexistent entity in shack meant for one that has six people squatting in it, but they make it work, and suddenly everyone else is out on very urgent errands that all need to be done at once. 

Dodger leads Oliver to his bed cushions and wraps a threadbare blanket around his shoulders until he decides to emerge from where he’s buried his face in Dodger’s chest. He can’t explain the need to touch, the consuming need to reassure himself that he didn’t fuck things up as bad as he thought he had, so he just holds on.

Eventually, Oliver uncurls himself, sitting sideways across Dodger’s lap as he rests his head on Dodger’s shoulder. He’s silent for a long time still, and Dodger doesn’t want to say anything else in fear he’ll turn things on its head again. 

“What do I have to do to make you see me that way?” Oliver mumbles, rubbing the fabric of Dodger’s shirt between his fingers. 

He could play dumb again, but there’s no point anymore. He’s not fooling anyone. Dodger rubs circles into Oliver’s hip to stop his hands from shaking. “I have nothing to offer you, kid.” 

Oliver notices all of the things that Dodger doesn’t say, of course he does, the kid has always been bright. “I’m not looking for anything other than you.”

“You’re too good for me,” Dodger says, but his voice sounds suspiciously weak.

Oliver takes advantage of Dodger’s hesitation, pulling Dodger’s face towards his with a hand on his cheek. Their foreheads press together, breath hot between their lips. “How about I decide that?” His voice is low, like that night at his house, and it pulls Dodger in the same way it had before. 

His eyes fall half-lidded, stuck on the blue of Oliver’s eyes. There’s patient determination in them, and Dodger falls even harder. He leans in, pressing their lips together, and revels in Oliver’s sharp gasp. He keeps it chaste, barely brushes his tongue to the jut of Oliver’s bottom lip before he pulls back, but he’s still satisfied at the way that Oliver’s eyes are pleasantly glazed.

“Yeah, okay.”

Oliver leans in closer, reconnecting their lips in a rougher, downright _filthy_ kiss that makes Dodger burn. 

“Come home with me. I’ve waited long enough.”

—

Dodger hadn’t actually expected anything would happen once they’d gotten to Oliver’s. He’s been holding himself back for so long that it’s practically ingrained into his limbs now, and there’d still been that slightest bit of hesitation and guilt on the subway ride over. 

Then Oliver had taken his clothes off. 

Oliver is soft everywhere, spoiled by living in his fancy new house with his fancy new family, and it still twinges, how that’s just further proof that Oliver is being taken care of in a way that Dodger would never have been able to. But, Dodger muses, calloused hands dragging hot paths down the naked curve of Oliver’s back, there is one thing Oliver needs that Dodger can do for him. 

Oliver is shivering under Dodger’s hands, muscles trembling under Dodger’s mouth as he presses kisses down the length of Oliver’s spine. 

For all of Oliver’s pushing and pouty demands, he’s still so new to this, and Dodger is overwhelmed thinking about all of the things he wants to introduce Oliver to.

“Well, kid,” Dodger murmurs, brushing his lips across the hills of Oliver’s ass. “You got me here. What do you want me to do?” Dodger knows what _he_ wants to do, dips his tongue down between Oliver’s cheeks in a hint of suggestion. 

Oliver lets out this sweet little mewl and rubs his face against the bedspread. “I—I—I…” he starts, stammering like he had when he was young. The thought doesn’t choke him like he expects it to. “I don’t—I don’t _know_ , Dodger, _please_.”

Dodger braces one hand on Oliver’s stomach, letting the back of his hand brush Oliver’s cock, and he’s almost surprised at how hard Oliver is, leaking like he’s just a hair trigger away from coming. Oliver’s stomach is soft there too, and it feels like such a treasure to be able to touch him, unscarred and untouched. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning down to blow cold air over Oliver’s hole. “Yeah, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

He wants to push any memories of Roscoe and DeSoto out of Oliver’s mind—make every touch, every kiss so overwhelming that Oliver can’t remember anything but Dodger’s name. 

Maybe this is really the reason that Dodger has resisted this for so long. This possessive, vicious feeling that he can’t hold back now that he has Oliver beautiful and begging below him. 

Too late now, Dodger thinks, licking a bold stripe over Oliver’s hole. Oliver lets out this high-pitched whine that makes Dodger do it again, quicker and harder, and he revels in the way that it makes Oliver shake.

“Dodger, _please_ ,” Oliver whimpers, arching onto Dodger’s tongue. 

Dodger doesn’t know what Oliver’s asking for and he doubts that Oliver even knows what he’s asking for at this point, so he just curls his tongue in farther, pressing past the tight ring of muscle. 

Oliver gasps at the first sign of penetration and then his knees lose their leverage, threatening to drop him flat to the mattress. Dodger holds him up by the hand on his stomach and moves his other hand to Oliver’s hip, reveling at the way Oliver’s skin prickles underneath his fingertips. 

He pulls back, traces gently around the rim, smooth light circles meant to tease. He does it until Oliver starts whining, thighs trembling, and then keeps doing it some more because Dodger can’t get enough of the way Oliver sounds so desperate for him. 

When Dodger slides his tongue back inside, Oliver is so wet that his precum is sliding down the wrist Dodger has braced against his stomach, and Dodger is going mad with how turned on he is. 

Oliver’s opening up more and more for him with every gentle thrust of tongue, until Dodger can’t get any closer, face pressed up flush to the soft skin of Oliver’s ass. 

Oliver’s mewling and squirming back on Dodger’s face like he’s never felt anything better in his life and Dodger _likes_ that. Likes that Oliver is slowly going out of his mind with pleasure and Dodger could cut glass with how hard he is right now. 

“Dodger, I _need_ you to—I—”

“Shh.” Dodger pulls back, pressing the sound into Oliver’s lower back. “You got any lube, baby?”

He presses a finger over Oliver’s hole, dipping in the slightest bit with how open Oliver is now. 

“Uh huh,” Oliver moans, suspended in the feeling of Dodger keeping him open. He doesn’t say anything more, too lost in pleasure, so Dodger checks Oliver’s side dresser like any man would. He comes up empty, save a few pens and what he suspects is a diary. 

Oliver’s still laying there, panting softly, eyes closed, and Dodger hates to bring him out of the hazy place he’s in, but fuck he can make Oliver feel even _better_. 

Dodger leans over to kiss a line across Oliver’s shoulder blades. “Where is it?”

Oliver’s fingers clench in the sheets, the only sign that Dodger’s been heard, and then he reaches under his pillow, pulling out a half used tube.

“Last night,” he murmurs, letting out a moan as Dodger’s finger presses in harder, fully enveloped in the tight, gripping walls. “I used it last night.”

His cock twitches against Oliver’s leg, leaving a wet streak that Dodger wants to lick off. “Even while you were pissed at me?” he asks, grabbing the tube and giving Oliver’s fingers a kiss before he lets them drop back to the bed. 

“Yeah,” Oliver breathes out, relaxing into the feeling of Dodger pushing in another finger slick with lube. “All the time. When you… the first time you took me on your motorcyle I—mmm—that night I imagined you fucking me on it. I—” Oliver cuts himself off, cheeks red and hair starting to glisten with sweat. 

Dodger can barely breathe through his arousal and he’s going to have to watch Oliver open himself up sometime, see all the ways he likes it, and then make it better. But now. Now he can’t wait anymore.

“You ready, baby?” he asks, biting and kissing any part of Oliver he can reach while he curls three fingers in as deep as they can go. 

Oliver’s head shoots up as Dodger brushes a spot inside Oliver and he shouts, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Dodger pulls his fingers out, shifting up to suck marks into Oliver’s shoulder, and then presses in slow and heady. The slide is easier than Dodger expects, and he wonders about the truth in Oliver saying _all the time_ when talking about fingering himself, because the slide is like wading into open water.

“Wait, wait,” Oliver pants once Dodger is fully seated inside, hips pressed flush against Oliver’s ass. His back is arched and tight and every inch of him glistens.

“You okay?” Dodger asks, peppering kisses across Oliver’s nape. 

Oliver shifts, arching even further so that Dodger slides inexplicably deeper and then sighs. “I’ve been wanting you inside of me for so long. I just need to… I want to feel it.”

Dodger knows it’s not manipulation, not just some unbearably sexy dirty talk that Oliver is making up, and that’s what makes him grit his teeth at the way his cock twitches against Oliver’s walls. 

He reaches up to link their fingers together, just to ground himself until Oliver lets him move. 

He’s so tight and feels like he gets tighter and tighter with every second that Dodger stays there. His skin feels more sensitive, hyper-aware of every place that their bodies line up and he has to nip at Oliver’s neck to keep himself sane. 

“Okay,” Oliver whispers after what feels like an eternity, and Dodger could cry from relief. 

He pulls back slowly, shaking at the feeling of Oliver’s body clinging to him. God, it’s never felt like this. Dodger thrusts back in too soon, too harsh, but Oliver’s surprised moan is all pleasure, so he keeps up his pace, memorizing the burn in his thighs, the sweat between his shoulder blades and the look on Oliver’s face. 

Oliver is panting, “ _Dodger_ ,” between every labored breath, squeezing Dodger’s fingers tighter between his own. 

It’s rough, fast, and searing, but—

But it also feels suspiciously like making love, with the way they’re stealing kisses and holding hands and that makes everything rise up faster in Dodger’s gut. 

Dodger sneaks a hand free to draw it down back to Oliver’s soft stomach, feeling the way the muscles underneath clench. It’s damp with sweat and precum and Oliver moans deliciously when Dodger takes his cock in hand and strokes in time with his thrusts. 

“Dodger. Dodger!” Oliver cries, reaching his free hand back to grip Dodger’s shoulder. His nails dig in as he comes, leaving red lines across Dodger’s shoulder. He clenches up tight everywhere; his hands, his ass, and Dodger has been on the edge for too long. He falls right over the edge with Oliver, cock buried deep into Oliver’s body.

When he pulls out, aching with it, there is a strip of come that leaks out of Oliver’s hole with him and Dodger is mesmerized. It’s primal, the way that seeing his own come slowly drip down Oliver’s ass makes him feel—possessive and smug and tender all wrapped into one. He wants to hold it in there, make Oliver feel him for days, but he also wants to watch all of it leak out, run down Oliver’s thighs until he’s dripping with it and then fuck him all over again. 

Christ, this is what he gets for letting something loose that he’d locked up for so long. 

Dodger moves over, dropping down into the space where Oliver is staring, spaced out with droopy, half-lidded eyes. They focus on Dodger right away and Oliver’s mouth curls up in a soft smile. 

Dodger can’t help but push back Oliver’s cowlick, fondness probably radiating out from every pore. 

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Oliver says, all sass and playfulness. 

Dodger smiles back. “You always were the smart one between us.”

—

Oliver graduates a month later, honors on honors on his diploma, and the only thing Dodger remembers about the day is how Oliver rides him slow and filthy in his room afterwards, pink-cheeked and burning. 

That’s all he remembers about the summer too; Oliver on his knees, Oliver spread open and moaning, Oliver hissing and mewling and begging, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver. 

Maybe that’s why it’s such a shock when suddenly Dodger is dropping Jenny and Oliver off at college. 

“And you promise you’ll visit?” Oliver asks, pressing in for a kiss before Dodger can answer. 

“Yeah, baby,” he says, just to see the way Oliver flushes prettily at the name the way he always does. “You’re not going far.”

And Oliver’s really not. NYU is closer to where Dodger works than Oliver’s fancy house; he can probably stop by after his shift a time or two per week easily. That doesn’t stop him from pulling Oliver even closer, left hand inching precariously low on Oliver’s waist for a public display, and based on the way Oliver arches up on his toes to press even closer, he doesn’t care about public decency either. 

“Can you two stop for three seconds?” Jenny huffs, but she can’t hide the exasperated fondness in her voice and Oliver only twines his tongue with Dodger’s more filthily in response. 

He pulls away and smacks two quick kisses down Oliver’s neck before taking a pointed step back. “Alright, baby, be nice to your sister. Time for me to go.”

Oliver pouts, sneaking in another two quick pecks before Jenny’s pulling him back with a groan. 

“If I leave you two alone, you’ll never come to orientation.”

Oliver keeps twisting back to look at Dodger, biting his lip like he’s holding himself back from saying something, and the yearning, bright look in his eyes makes it clear to Dodger exactly what that something is. 

The thought makes his heart race a little, even still, even though the same emotion has settled deep into his skin. 

Dodger takes a breath. It’s about time that he starts to be as brave as Oliver has always been. 

“Hey.”

Jenny looks back too, but Dodger only has eyes for Oliver and the tentative, hopeful look on his face. His cheeks are still flushed from kissing and his hair is summer-bright and Dodger has always felt this way and will feel this way for the rest of his life. 

“I love you.”


End file.
